


Steam Company

by blatherbits



Category: Original - Fandom, Original Work, Original Works
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Multi, Steampunk, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 07:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20862179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blatherbits/pseuds/blatherbits
Summary: The Bristol Army is made up of those who have Talents, and those who don't.  Those who don't are the Notties.  The untalented in a world where lighting a fire with a snap of your fingers is normal behavior.  Captain Frank Henries prides himself on building a cohesive fighting unit, all the while knowing the generals will throw them at the enemy with little concern for their welfare.  Haunted by previous losses and battles,  and only recently getting his unit re-certified for the battle field, Frank faces an internal battle with his own failings, as he attempts to come up with a strategy that will save as many of his men as can, even while the Rabbits are forced to run headlong into the withering barrage of the Enemy.





	1. First day

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is more then welcome. This is a work in progress, that is currently being edited and updated off line. I will post additional chapters as I get them finished.

Water sprayed across the bow, stinging Frank's eyes. The boat rocked, then pitched, and he grabbed the gunwales to keep from falling over the side. He screamed for his men to row faster. The walls of their destination loomed ahead of them, as he watched a boat be lifted into the air, then snapped in two. The men that had been in that boat, falling back into the stormy waves. "Harder! Pull Harder!" he screamed, his voice being torn away in the wind. 

More screams as a boat to his right was lifted high into the air, then it came apart like a box of match sticks. He braced, knowing at any second it would be his boat that met that end. With a last heroic effort, the boat reached the rocky base of the thirty meter walls. "Grappling Hooks!" he screamed, as the ropes went up the wall. Then he was climbing, the climb seemed endless, he watched as the soldiers next to him were one by one engulfed in flames, or pulled from the wall by the invisible telekinetic force of his enemies. 

With a shudder he looked back towards the top and it wasn't a wall he was climbing, it was bodies, thousands of bodies, and standing on the top was a million faces looking down on him. His wife's, his father in laws, nobles, common folk, all the talented, and they were flinging his soldiers off the wall of bodies, but never him. With a yell of frustration he screamed for them to stop, to help, to end this. 

With a unified laugh they smiled, and like a huge giant, reached down and picked him up. Raising him far over their heads. He was falling, and below him, their mouth gaped horribly wide, with millions of teeth. As the dream crashed to darkness, Frank sat up in his cot, his breathing shallow, his cot soaked in sweat. A voice was at the flap of his tent. "Sir, orders are in. Milton has fallen, sir. Our Divisions is being called in."

"Thank you, corporal. Go wake David." Frank said catching his breath. He looked down at his own sweat soaked body, and allowed himself a moment of sadness. "They are going to do it again, aren't they? Send us to our deaths, again. Why, Maker? Why can't they change?" He ended with a silent prayer, and pushed the cover off. "Time to rally the troops, I guess. Brave face now Frank, Brave face."

General Lucious Crawford sat at the table with Prime Minister Dillinger, Count Fulgrim, and Baron Clark. The four made up the strong arm of the conservative movement that was currently in control of Parliament, and had the King’s ear. Dillinger was an average man on the outside, no distinguishing marks, dirty brown hair, and chocolate brown eyes. It wasn’t his looks or lack thereof, however, that had gotten him to be Prime Minister.

"We have verification that the Frasier have taken Milton, with a sizable force." Dillinger was pointing at a map on the table. The map was a depiction of the Kingdom of Bristol. It took up the entirety of the continent it had been founded on. To the far west was Camsworth. Next in line were the Duchies of Bleven in the north and Donsworth in the south. Hollingford, Devinshire and Oldstone made up the three Central Duchies. 

Sop covered the south east, and Dreaden the north east. The current invasion was at one of the Duchy of Sop’s largest cities, the Port of Milton. “If we were to loose Sop, how badly would this affect vote totals, Fulgrim?

"As it stands we hold one hundred eighty three seats in parliament, with Duke Camsworth holding one hundred fourty five. The loss of Sop would put our total at one hundred sixty eight. Still enough to hold parliament, however, you could guarantee that Dreaden would lose several seats, probably more than half, and a few more in Bleven and Donsworth. Our estimate is that if we lose Sop, the Progressives take Parliament.” Fulgrim replied in his nasally high pitched voice. He was a short skinny man with thinning hair, he dressed in the most outrageous fashions, bright colors, cross gartered socks, ridiculous hats, but he had a head for vote counting, and twisting arms.

Dillinger frowned and stood up from the board to pace, irritated at the response. “Bad timing with elections just around the corner, can we put them off at all?”

“The constitution says we are required to hold elections with-in three months of the end of the second session, since the last elections. You have held this session open longer than any session in history, and even our own party is calling for a recess. They have constituencies to see to, and this will certainly not help.”

“Clark, any chance of a declaration of war?” The Prime minister asked, turning to the fourth member of the quartet. He scratched his neck looking up at the ceiling, listening to Clark’s response.

Clark pursed his thick purplish lips. His mustache bled into his side burns, leaving a bare double chin. The portly man couldn’t be more different from Frulgrim. “We have been at war with Frasier for the past several millennia. War is a constant, and the constitution makes no exception for war time activities. The vote must be called, I’m sorry, Prime Minister.” The man’s accent was heavy with many dropped consonants, and he rounded out all the vowels, but it was understandable enough.

“Very well. Luscious that means it’s up to you to save our positions, and the parliament from those idiots. What are our troop levels like?”

Crawford smiled. He was a lean man with long bushy side burns. He was dressed in a modest suit with an expensive if subdued dark blue and grey vest. "Well, the 2nd just brought a certain Echo company back to full readiness. Long march for them, but they should definitely go, be about fifteen thousand there. Send the 5th down from Dreaden, to remind that bastard not to vote against you again, and have the 8th server as reinforcements, though we lost the 101st battalion at Milton already. Puts them down about a thousand men. So call it nine divisions, or about forty-four thousand troops." He sipped a snifter of brandy as he finished, smacking his lips, and then taking a long pull on a pipe.

"Forty-four thousand, we really do need to decrease the size of the army. I think next term we’ll begin discussing a draw down to maybe five corps, from the current ten. Just too many mouths to feed and the Knotties flock into the Army in droves, though it does do to rid us of the pests. I guess it’s cheaper than having them on the dole.” Fulgrim mused.

“How are you going to justify leaving south-western Sop exposed, by sending the 2nd?" Clark chimed in.

"Easily, the Prime minister will send me to take command of Lang’s Pass. That way we look like we are bolstering our defenses, and not ignoring the needs of the rest of Sop." He nodded in satisfaction at the solution.

"Excellent Lucious. I trust that you’ll instruct General Allister to send the 37th Battalion to lead the charge." Dillinger stated without it being a question.

"Of course, Prime Minister. Wouldn’t do to not take a crack at putting that officious captain out of our misery." Replied Crawford

"Indeed it wouldn’t. Indeed it wouldn’t"

Captain Frank Henries walked briskly down the rows of Echo Company, any lingering effects from the nightmare swept to the recesses of his mind. Two hundred crisp uniforms flashed in the early morning sun. He stopped at every third or fourth trooper to inspect the silver buttons on the dark blue shirts that made up the top of their uniforms, ensuring the field uniform looked as good as they could before he and his men marched with the rest of 2nd Corp. The uniforms had several pockets on the silvery grey pants, and a black belt to hold them up. 

The pants never stayed grey long, in the rain and mud, but Frank had no say over the uniforms. They tucked into calf high marching boots, which had to be inspected for shine, according to the generals. The wool shirt buttoned down the front, with a pocket on either side, and epaulets on the shoulders. Names were stenciled above the right breast pocket, and the left shoulder held the company logo, and battalion designation. The rank insignia was stitched to the right shoulder, at a matching level to the logo. He took a certain pride in making sure his men looked like the best unit in the Army, even if most of them were only 3 months fresh from boot camp.

On each belt was expected to be found the soldier’s ammo pouch, canteen, hand knife, and gas mask. The field uniforms didn’t have to maintain the same sharp lines the company’s dress uniforms maintained, but they still had to be in good order. The generals wanted the villages they were about to march through left with a good impression of their fighting troops: the pretty boys in Silver and Blue.

On the troopers right shoulders rested the Divant Mark IV. Frank frowned at one trooper’s gun. "Those hoses look worn Private, have them replaced tonight. Sergeant Devreaux makes sure we do a complete inspection of hoses tonight. Don’t want any leaks leading to loss of pressure from the canisters. "Master Sergeant Devreaux acknowledged the order from behind Frank as he continued up the line. Her "Yes, sir" growled in such a way to indicate the poor private in front of Frank was in for a long night. "And Master Sergeant, check on our status on the Mark Vs. I know Viper company got theirs two months ago, where are ours?"

"I already checked on that, sir. Seems we somehow fell off the list again. Seems that five year old guns are good enough for Rabbits, as far as central is concerned. I talked to the Lemmings and Hares as well; they had also managed to fall off the list."

Frank sighed heavily. "I’ll leave it in your hands, Sergeant. It would be nice to fire something that can actually hit what we aim at."

The Captain was also in his field uniform; blue jacket over silver shirt with a blue tie to complete the top. Silver pants with a blue piping down the legs, tucked into tall almost knee length riding boots. He stood just about 190 centimeters tall, and his close cropped red hair was covered by the same kind of helmet his men would soon be donning. The helmet came down to just about his ears, with a dome top, and strap that ran under his chin to keep it in place during a fight. His rank was stenciled on the front of the helmet, and inside, like just about every soldier, he kept a few pictures and a package of cigarettes.

Frank reached the end of the line with just a few more occasional comments, but mostly pleased with what he found. Stepping over to the Engineer section of his company, he inspected the steam generator carefully. It’s large, hulking self was fired up and giving off a warm ambience. It stood about three and a half meters tall, and the central shape was that of a tall cylinder tipped on its side. It was easily six meters long. Strapped to either side, and nestled underneath the curve, of the main boiler were two fuel tanks, which were full of a pressurized methane gas. These were used to keep the boiler hot via enclosed flames at the bottom of the main boiler. 

A series of hoses lead down to various filling locations all around the edges of the engine. These hoses hooked to valves that allowed for quick connection, charge, and release of the individual troopers steam canister. This was all mounted on top of a steel frame attached to axels, and sitting on four heavy rubber tires. Several tons of metal, water, steam and hose that were the life blood of the company. All the fixtures sparkled from fresh polishing, even the dull grey metal of the boiler seemed to have deep luster to it.

Frank’s bright green eyes took careful note of anything which might cause an accident. He examined the stylized lettering on the front of the boiler. "Priscilla, Warrant?"

"Yes, Sir. New boiler, new name. Priscilla is the name of Corporal Flattery’s sweetheart back home. "

"And the portrait?" Frank raised an eyebrow at the pin-up painted under the name. She looked to be about eighteen with curly blond hair, full red lips. She was wearing a long summer dress, with-out corsets, with just a bit of ankle showing. Her cleavage on the other hand was definitely on the robust and nearly exploding side, and a parasol topped off the picture.

Warrant Officer Dolls had the wear withal to look a bit abashed by the nearly scandalous portrait. "Well, she’s the spitting image of one Miss Cane, Sir."

"Would that be Private Cane?"

"Yes, Sir. Volunteered to pose for O’Donnel herself, Miss Cane did. Who were we to say no to a fine lass like that."

"She even had the outfit available I’m sure."

"If you can believe it, yes, sir."

"Of course." smirked Frank. "You’ll make sure it’s covered when we pass through the villages of course."

"Of course, Sir. We have a nice flag all picked out to drape over her and all."

"Very good. Everything else in order, Warrant? I would prefer not to end up like those three companies at the Battle of Yukranton two years ago.”

"Ship shape, Sir. No containment breaches on my watch, sir."

"Good, Warrant Officer Dolls. I think we are done Master Sergeant. Prepare to address the troopers."

The sun cut a beam through the light cloud cover, striking the podium just as Frank began his speech. A light breeze kept the humidity and heat from becoming over bearing. "Ladies and Gentleman, at ease." Four hundred arms swung behind backs, as two hundred feet moved in unison at his command. "We all know what this is about, but let me reinforce the King’s position. The Frasiers will not bring down the Royal Kingdom, while Parliament still stands. You men and woman are the first line of defense of that position."

"Run, Rabbit, Run!" came the familiar cadence of the unit’s cheer.

"You are expected to fight. You are expected to fight with all your heart, and body, in the defense of kingdom. They say we are untalented. They say we are a drain on society. I say different. I say companies like Rabbit Company are the back bone of our society. We are the front line of the defense. The back that lifts the wall, when a telp’s mind can’t even brace it. We are the iron shot that pierces armor, when a fireball won’t even heat it. We are the eyes in the dark, where the emps can’t see. We are Rabbit Company, and we will face this fight with courage, and purpose!

Soldiers, I expect the best from you, I expect professionalism, I expect dedication, but most of all I expect you to live to fight another day!” Frank turned to his left and spoke directly to his first officer. “Lieutenant Basu, bring the men to order and let’s move out."

Lieutenant Raxit Basu barked out an attention order, his dark brown hair, also cropped short, was quickly covered with his helmet and strapped into place. His face had an aristocratic bent with a sharp roman nose. An athletic frame, with wide shoulders, capped off his recruiting ready look that belied his status as nottie. He called the platoon sergeants to order and gave the company to the master sergeant for cadence. 

Master Sergeant Devreaux was a trim woman with a strong alto voice, which could carry across the training ground like a small explosion. Her long brunette hair was tied in a tight cord down her back; the first grey lines of eighteen years of service were woven into that braid, a fact she wore with pride. None too few recruits had been dressed down with the silver hairs as evidence of their inadequacy and the strain they put upon their master sergeant with their ineptitude. She turned smartly bringing the company to face the gate, and marched them towards the road. 

Frank and Lieutenant Basu watched the company file out of their training grounds then looked around at what was left. A few fire pits, a long table for food prep, and the flag pole, the remnants of three hard months of training. The Lieutenant turned saluted Frank one last time, “Any other orders sir?”

“Keep them moving lieutenant, I’m sure command has some brilliant plan that entails stacking our troops like cordwood so they can use them as steps to get up the wall. Put out some feelers, get the troops thinking of ways we can survive the General’s standard tactic. I’d like suggestions back at second encampment.”

“Yes, sir. May I speak freely for a second sir?”

Frank frowned knowing what his lieutenant was about to say, but also knowing it was necessary to hear him out. “Quickly.”

“Don’t punch anyone, Sir. You know what’s coming, you know what they are going to say, so just… don’t punch anyone.” Basu gave him a lopsided grin, then fell in with the third platoon and marched along beside them out the gate. 

Frank stepped off the parade stand to one side and climbed in the Bullsworth where his valet, David Hurley, was seated in the driver seat. "Good speech Captain. We are schedule to meet with Colonel Ogayu at thirteen hundred. The officers will then catch up to the column around fifteen hundred mid-point to Lang’s Pass.” Despite having a healthy frame that could have run a marathon, and often did, Frank had the dubious privilege of riding in the company’s version of ground transportation, the Balakrishnan Bullsworth. It was fairly fast and maneuverable, and could get about 100 miles on a tank of steam. It had a shock system, comprised mostly of bruises and jarring bumps, and had a bad habit of rolling over on fast turns. Balakrishnan autos had been producing the vehicles since the last war with the Frasiers, about ten years earlier, its utility had kept it around, even if it did still look like a wagon with a big tanked welded on the back.

"Well fifteen miles by nightfall," Frank replied. "A good pace, we could probably push twenty if we weren’t hauling the steam engine along. Let’s get on with it David. I’m sure Ogayu will use his usual plan. Let’s just hope the other corps catch up to us before we reach Milton. Otherwise not many of those troopers are coming home."

Colonel Martin Ogayu stood at the table examining a large map of the Bristol continent as Frank walked in. Frank moved over to look down at the map with tall dark skinned Colonel. On the map were markers for each of the Army Corps that were divided between the 8 Duchies of Bleven, Donsworth, Camsworth, Hollingford, Devinshire, Dreaden, Sop, and Oldstone. 2nd Corp was currently marked in Sop Duchy in the Southeast.

"Sop has gotten tired of these Frasier attacks, Frank." He used the long ah sound so that the word came out more like frah-seer, as opposed to the Bristol pronounced frayzure . "We are going to have to really hammer them this time. The Generals are pretty adamant that this time we drive them off for a good while. Three years is enough time for them being uppity. Can’t have them thinking their above their places, hell I’ll take one of you Notties at my dinner table long before one of them Frasiers.” 

Frank frowned, and bit his lip for a second. Thinking hard on how to respond to the insult, and studying the large Colonel’s sturdy, if robust, frame. A quick scan of the Colonel’s dark brown eyes, and olive skinned face, told him the general was in one of those moods. "Well, sir. There isn’t much on that continent of theirs. Gael is mostly dessert, and the Sea of Elizabeth is fairly easy to navigate,” he finally replied. “All the same, it would be better for the Empire, as a whole, if they stayed on their side of the sea.

Ogayu looked up at Frank with a slight scowl. "Careful, Frank, if I didn’t know you were a cousin to the King, I’d hear compassion in those words." His deep voice vibrated in Frank’s chest, emphasizing the Colonel’s opinion.

Suppressing a sigh, Frank countered quickly, "no compassion, sir, just the facts. The Frasiers were a heartless bunch of murdering bastards. The rebellion was needed to give us the chance to grow. Doesn’t mean I don’t understand their mindset. I’ve fought them often enough, and lost more men then I care to think about." Frank was frowning now, trying hard not take the Colonel’s bait.

The Colonel nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer. His deep brown eyes flicked back to the map, as sweat ran down his shaved head. "The situation up in Milton is a bit of a mess right now, as you know. We aren’t sure how large a force is out there, but it was big enough to sack the city over night.” One of his large fingers planted on Milton on the far east coast of the continent. It was the largest port on the coast, and had been well defended. “We’ll go over the initial game plan, once everyone arrives, so grab some coffee and take a seat. Your boys on the road?"

"The Rabbits are indeed running, sir. I’ll be catching up to them about half way to Lang’s pass, if this doesn’t take too long. Rax had them marching along smartly when I headed over here."

Otayu shrugged and nodded. "Good man for a nottie, just needs to learn not to open his mouth too often.” He words were more to himself then to Frank. “Well, take a seat, we’ll get started when the rest show up." 

Frank moved to one side and poured himself a mug of coffee then sat in one of the chairs. It was not a comfortable camp chair, being made of canvas and wooden dowels. It was the standard utilitarian type of chair, most army camps shared. Easily broken down, and packed away when the camp moved. He had splurged from his own funds for something more comfortable in his own tent, but that was another point of argument with the Colonel. 

The meeting was taking place in the Colonel’s command tent, pretty much the last structure still standing in the camp. It was large, by tent standards, but would be cramped with the entire staff inside. Heavy canvas fell around the two of them, blocking out any breezes that might disrupt the maps spread out on the table. It made the room stuffy, even with as few people as had arrived yet.

Major Collin showed up next, commander of Able Company, followed closely by Major Singh, head of Bravo. Captains Himoshi and Wilson arrived after that. That was the company heads for 3rd Division. The Colonel’s staff was already on hand. These included Captain Santiago his Supply officer, Lieutenant Colonel Bora, the generals Chief of Staff, and a rash of Lieutenants and other clerks. Once everyone was settled the Chief of Staff got started. "Good to see you all. The 27th battalion is already on the move, and 3rd Division has been ordered to hook up with the rest of 2nd Corp that is coming in from the surrounding areas.”

“The 27th has, once again, been given the honor of leading the charge into the Frasier lines. Seems we have the most experience fighting them or something. That means I’m relying on Echo Company, Henries, to punch that first hole. So here are the rest of the details..." Colonel Bora droned on into deeper details of the planned assault. They’d used much the same tactic at the Green’s Bay landing as the one Ogayu was laying out for them. Echo, Frank’s Rabbit Company, being the most expendable unit, would build bulwark and then wait for the artillery to soften up the approaches. At dawn, they would charge across a 100 meters of no man’s land, to try and take the foothold that Charlie and Delta would exploit to lever a larger hole for the rest of the Division to charge through. Able and Bravo companies would be held in reserve till either Charlie or Delta needed reinforcement, or the general attack came. Someone had to create that hole, better to use Notalaunts, or Notties as the less cultured liked to call them, like Echo Company, then waist good Talents like Able and Bravo.

“So everyone has their assignments then? Any comments or recommendations?” Bora asked as he concluded the briefing.

“Sir,” Captain Hiroshi piped up. “We are positive it’s clear between Lang’s and Milton? That seems odd, an army large enough to take Milton would need to forage, or have a large delivery of food and supplies coming in to the bay.”

“Hiroshi has a point, Colonel, how fresh is the information from the Espers?” Wilson chimed in.

Bora looked to one of his lieutenants who pulled out a clipboard. “At least a day old sir.”

“Are their plans for possible skirmishes on the way to Milton then?” Hiroshi asked extending the line of thought.

“We are likely to be far enough behind other units, to not be involved in most skirmish or holding actions the Frasiers try and take. But, the point is valid. Ideas? Colonel?” Bora looked around the circle of officers with a raised bushy eyebrow. The lieutenant colonel’s own darker complexion and deep brown eyes made him somewhat nondescript for most of Bristol society.

This launched a new round of planning with Rabbit Company being volunteered by the Colonel to serve as scouts after Lang’s Pass. They would pass through a majority of the land first, scouting for possible hostiles in the way of the division. It was a massive movement of troops, though, and the likely hood of small skirmishes seemed reasonable. Frank made a note to talk to Devreaux about pickets and ensuring squads were rotating in and out of scouting as they moved through the Sop forests and swamp land. Would muss up their pretty uniforms when they passed through villages, but Frank was unconcerned.

The meeting broke up after about two hours. Most of the officers moved out immediately, heading for their Bullsworth and steaming away. Captain Damon Raxits, head of Delta Company, walked over to Frank as they were walking out. "What do you think Frank?" 

"I think I’m about to get three months recruiting time in again, if I survive. I’ll be lucky to pull a quarter of them out, Maker take all brilliant Colonels." Frank repressed the urge to swear about incompetent Generals spending his men like so much cattle, as well. "Fifty thousand? Is that what the General said?"

"Yeah, fifty thousand. Five and four zeros. Intel isn’t sure how they landed them all so fast." Raxits had a low pitched voice that rumbled as he spoke. He stood at two meters plus a few centimeters, and was black as night.

"So if I’m lucky, we’ll get two to ones on the wall. You’ll have to be close to being Rabbits yourself to exploit this one."

"Tell me about it. Us low order talents aren’t treated much better than your group."

"Have to disagree with you, Damon. You can retreat if the fan is hit by horse manure."

"True enough. You still in that betting pool?"

"Every Notalaunt Captain is. I’ve won 3 years in a row, despite averaging 75% losses in the last year."

"Maker! Why do you people keep enlisting?"

"Enlist or starve, is pretty much the rule of the day. Most industries just don’t need us, and the current administration doesn’t like the Dole at all. The Army is actually better, then hoping any given Parliament will procure enough money to keep the poor from starving."

"Can’t be worse than death, Frank."

"Yeah, say that to the kid down in the weapons factory who gets paid fifty cents an hour less than his telepath counterpart, even though they do the exact same job, the exact same way. Or better yet, talk to my troops sometimes. They’ll be happy to fill you in."

"Come on Frank..."

Frank pressed on. "Come on nothing, Damon. You know damn good and well that if a Notalaunt came in your father’s shop, he’d get charged twice as much."

"Frank, I’m on your side. No need to lecture me." Damon had stepped back a pace raising his hands.

Frank let out a sigh and un-balled the hands he had subconsciously balled up. "Sorry, you didn’t deserve that Damon."

"Your damn right I didn’t. Looks like the old man wants another word with you, Frank. Probably be best if you didn’t try and lecture him."

Frank gave a thin lipped smiled but the tinge of anger at his losses in the last year, didn’t let it last long. He found the Colonel waiting for him at his Bullsworth.

"I know this is a hard assignment, Frank, but do try to keep some of you boys alive? Yourself included. I might be able to pull a promotion if you get out with more than fifty percent of your men this time."

"I’ll do my best sir, if you make sure that artillery actually hits something this time.” Frank tried to joke about the losses with his superior, hoping to hide the bitterness biting at the back of his throat. “If they can pull better than fifty percent I don’t see a problem. I don’t expect to hit ninety percent ever again, sir."

"That the mess at Yukranton? What was that two years ago? We can’t have you being bitter about something that old. Besides, a lot of companies lost a lot of men there"

Frank started to scowl, but caught himself, and smiled through clenched teeth instead. "Yes sir, a lot of men did die. I’ve managed to keep those twenty survivors too. Not counting David and the Engineering Crew, who had to march back with us, due to the rising tide, but like you said 2 years ago. I’m sure most of the current recruits have forgotten it entirely.” The kernel of anger was stronger now. "This will be most of the Company’s first battle, again, sir. We lost seventy five percent at Bostingwhale as well." He tried hard to say the last line without clenching his teeth, or snapping at the general.

"Well just remember fifty percent this time Frank." The Colonel beat a hasty retreat at Frank’s hard words.

Frank climbed in his Bullsworth with a heavy sigh. "We are a little behind David, so you’ll be pleased to use those extra driving courses I sent you to last month, to catch us up to the column?"

"Yes, Sir!" Came the reply with a huge grin behind it. The accelerator went down and steam pumped into the engine winding it up to its top speed. They pushed forward at a steady ten miles per hour, up the well-worn road towards Lang’s Pass.


	2. On the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company begins it journey towards the coming battle. New members of the company are introduced, the Sergeant Major takes a wander through camp.

The Company had bivouacked for the night in a large field, just outside a small farming village. It was a quiet night as the company set about camp. Third Platoon was nearest the road at this encampment, their tents were lined up in careful rows. The white canvas tents filling the field in perfect formations, presenting an impressive front to the locals.

Lieutenant Richard Woolsroot was in charge of third Platoon. While his men quietly went about their camp business, he sat on a green canvas camp stool, with a small writing desk on his lap. The desk was made of a dark rich wood, that easily folded down to be stowed with other camp equipment. "Lieutenant, the men are buttoned up and accounted for, would you like a plate from the fire?"

Woolsroot looked up from his writing at the bulky Sergeant. Giving him a disdainful glance. "If you would Sergeant. See to it my report reaches the captain would you?"

The Sergeant in question grimaced at the order shaking his brown haired head, but returned shortly with a bowl of stew and some crusty bread from the lieutenant. He accepted a folded paper, then turned back to the platoon, and out of Woolsroots mind.

Woolsroot looked back to the letter he was writing, reading the first paragraph again before continuing.

_Father, we have camped outside some provincial farm village on our way to the new invasion. Captain Henries has proven to be as incompetent as ever, giving a ridiculous speech about duty to country and the like. Not that inspiring if you ask me, but the peasants seemed to eat it up. My fellow officers still dote on him, despite his inability to lead our company to anything other then inglorious massacres._

He bit his lip thinking of what further to write.

_Why the OldTown papers write anything about their beloved Captain is beyond my reasoning. Rest assured, you can tell the Prime Minister that I will continue to report my findings and observations to you as I have time. Anything we can do to keep the liberals and the Notties in line, is something I can get behind._

_I do hope those notes go towards moving up my transfer request, as one can never be certain if an enemy Pyro, or Kinetic, might accidentally find me on the battle field. It would be something of a loss for the Ministry, for me to no longer be able to report on the idiots activities, and ensure the Party knows what is really happening out here in the wilds._

_Till next time then, your beloved Son,_

_Richard._

The writing was perfectly shaped. He always received high marks in school on his penmanship, and wrote these letters not only to keep his father informed, but to practice his penmanship and perfect it. His quill was of the finest goose feather, and he carefully honed the tip between writing sessions. The ink was expensive, and barely ran when he wrote, leaving crisp lines and letters.

A quick dash of sand and the roller to dry out the ink. Two precise, carefully measured folds, then into a almond colored envelope. He dripped the sealing wax on the flap, then pressed his signet ring into it, to ensure it was his mark. With satisfaction, he called over one of the privates. "You, private, please run this into town. I want it out with the evening post."

"Sir? The Captain said all personal mail should go through Mr. David, who would drop it off in a larger town during the march tomorrow." The private in question was young, perhaps 17. He had mousy brown hair, cut short, but still messy. HIs uniform was slightly rumpled, and his shoes looked to have been soaking in mud.

"Private! What in the name of the Maker has happened to your Boots. And why is that uniform not pressed? What's your name Private?"

The private in question shrunk back from the sudden attack. "Private Dwight, sir. I was just coming back from digging the latrine, sir. On my way to.."

Woolsroot cut him off before he could finish. "Bosh on that, consider your next leave cancelled. After you deliver this letter, report to Sergeant Hemps for extra duty, now get gone, and get those boots and uniform straight. If I see it that sullied again, I'll have you busted back to recruit!" Woolsroot nodded in satisfaction as Private Dwight scurried away towards town. With a smug expression he reached for his tea, only to find it cold.

With a grimace he looked for the next private he could find. "PRIVATE!"

Sergeant Hemps gritted his teeth as Private Dwight reported his encounter with the Lieutenant. He knew the drill. "Private Dwight, I am not one to speak ill of officers, consider yourself punished and your leave cancelled. I'll ensure the Lieutenant knows that this has been recorded."

Private Dwight looked crestfallen and stammered "Yes, Sergeant.." 

"Now, that your punishment is taken care of, please ensure you get your boots cleaned up, and let the Collins know he'll be replacing you on watch tonight."

"Sergeant?"

"Did I bloody well stammer, Private? You are to spend tonight, ironing your uniform, cleaning your boots, and when you have completed that you are to get food, and ensure your bunk is warm. Am I making myself clear?"

"Warm my bunk, S..ss...sergent?"

"Bloody hell Private." He took the boy under his arm and pointed at Dwight's bivouac, "please ask Specialist Toya how to do that. She'll be happy to explain it in detail. I don't want to see you again till dawn, hear me?" The private looked up at Hemps feeling Dwarfed by the bulky Sergeant

As Dwight walked quickly towards his tent, Hemps shook his head, as he had just ten minutes previously to the lieutenant. The useless sot of a Lieutenant was about as good as having a Frasier in command, he thought. A Frasier would at least have shot them in the front, not hide under a rock. 

"If he tried that trick again, I have every intention of picking up the rock and having it lobbed out of at steam cannon" Hemps muttered to himself. That would be a site his platoon would really enjoy. He walked around the bivouac chatting up his privates and specialists. Bulky as he was, he weighed in somewhere over eighty eight and a half kilos; new recruits always thought he’d be a tough case. They rapidly learned that he was a pussy cat. At least till the fighting started, then you had better be hauling ass, otherwise it wouldn’t be the Frasiers you had to worry about.

Hemps sat down at his tent, running a hand through dark black hair, cut as short as the rest of the army. The first rain drops hit as he looked up at the now low slung clouds, "Well Ladies, looks like it’s going to be a wet bivouac."

"Just the way we like it Sarge!" Came the response from one of the actual ladies in his Section. "Hot, Wet, and hard." That would be Private Melissa Cane. 

"Well you’ll get two out of three tonight. The third will have to wait till the Frasiers are tossed in the sea." Hemps replied.

"Ah you are such a tease, Sarge."

"We all know you’re saving it for the Captain, Cane. So who’s teasing?" Hemps replied, with a grin as he leaned back in small canvas stool that served as a chair in front of his tent. He looked down the neat even rows of single trooper tents that stretched to either side of him. The tents showed dully in the light, their white canvas tops and sides splashed orange by various fires. He nodded once satisfied with the lay out.

"Yeah but the Captain knows better than to chase Cane’s tail, Sarge. Sloppy seconds doesn’t do anyone any good." That would be Specialist Trisha, from the automatics section. Most of Hemps troopers were new, and he was still getting them straight in his head. 

"Put a sock in it, all of ya." Yelled Hemps chuckling quietly.

"A wet sock, Sarge?"

"Can it Private! Now sing after me Troopers. Here we go again!" Hemps launched into his favorite cadence song for the third time that evening. The groans from third platoon carried clear across the field. "Sing it with me troops, or we'll be marching to it till dawn!" They got into the spirit of it after that, and soon third platoon was making the rest of the camp boo as they went round again. Hemps noded, satisfied with his work, as he sharpened his blade, a second Lieutenants back firmly in his mind.

Raxit Basu grinned at the singing coming from third platoon, as he sat in his own bivouac and sipped a hot cup of tea. He was reviewing reports from the other lieutenants and chowing down on stew from the cook fire. "Wish third would bloody well cork it down." grumbled one of the soldiers near him.

"Let them sing. With Woolsey in charge, they need something to keep the spirits up." came another nearby voice.

Raxit was tempted to let the comment slide. He frowned at the two competing reports, one from Woolsroot one from his First Sergeant Steven Hemps. Woolsroot reported no issues with the platoon, but he read Hemps report carefully.

Moral: Low  
Discipline Reports: Fifteen  
Specialist Colsin: Talking back - Latrine Duty  
Pfc Otinawa: Insubordination - Kitchen Duty  
Pfc Anand: Wrinkled Uniform - 2 Demerits  
Private Otangu: Insufficient Boot Shine - 3 Demerits  
Psc Dettwieler: Insubordination and disorderly attire.  
The list continued a litany of minor infractions. Raxit sighed, putting Woolsroot report aside, and began assembling his own report for Frank to read tomorrow. He made note of the issues in third company, and for the fifth time requested that Woolsroot be transferred out of combat command. 

Next up was 2nd Platoon's report. Lieutenant Wexler report was concise listed 2 minor infractions, both related to failure to maintain army equipment. He read through the disciplinary actions and didn't find any faults with the decisions. He made notes in his report and folded up his writing desk, and picked up his own report, along with the others, to bring to Frank.

It was a short walk across the bivouac to Frank's command tent, where he sat sketching on large map. Frank looked up as Raxit entered the tent. "Look over this for a second would you? We know the General is daft enough to throw us against the wall at Milton, so I'm trying to think of ways we could get there, with less damage."

Raxit, smirked, a wry twist of his mouth, that pushed his mustache into his nose a bit. The reports went to David who was sitting in a corner taking notes. Raxit walked over surveying the plan. "We'll need extra canisters to toss, to create that screen, but steam dissipates pretty quick."

Frank pursed his lips looking at his numbers. "Could we get some fireworks you think? The smoke from those tends to linger a long time. Granted, no one should be carrying any once we are deep in it. Stray fireball and boom. Those things can kill."

"Valid, I've got a few, we could mess around with. Maybe the Engineers know more about the stuff, then we do. I know it was attempted to be used in a few skirmishes with the Frasiers in the past. Mostly as bombing tactics, but each time a fireball into the supply and like you said. Boom" Raxit replied, rubbing his forehead for a second. "We know, when packed like they do in fireworks it explodes, it probably just burns when loose. Maybe tear apart some fireworks and see how much smoke it generates?"

"I like it. Can you get the Sergeants on it? I know there has to be some fireworks running around the camp, every camp has them. David, could you look into some local merchants as well? Not sure how much it will cost, but we don't need a lot before we reach Mortimer. I'm betting we can get a good amount there."

"Indeed, Sir. Shall I put a letter in to your Father in-law? He's quite good at acquiring such things. Always loved his displays on Emancipation Day. Celebrating the over throw of the Frasier regiments deserves a big explosion in his mind."

Frank and Raxit grinned at David and Frank piped up. "If you think it can get there, and back by the time we reach Mortimer? Absolutely. Narrow window to get a message clear cross continent."

"Yes, Sir. We Valet's have our ways though."

"Of Course, David. See to it. We can scour the camp in the mean time for some test material. See to it Rax, in the morning. In the mean time, lets go over today's reports."

"Yes, Sir. Usual information, Sir. I'm sure you won't find any of it surprising."

"Ah William is up to his usual again, then?" Frank looked bemused. "Might as well hear your report, that way you can sleep with a clear conscience tonight."

"Haven't slept with one of those, since Brandby, sir."

"Was that her name, or was that the town?"

"Both? It's been a while."

"Of course it has. We do not to find you a nice lady to settle down with."

"Not my style, Frank, but lets get on with the report."

David, tapped his quill into the ink well as they began talking, taking a steady series of notes for the two leading officers of Rabbit company.

Master Sergeant Gwen Devreaux stalked the camp looking for prey to catch unawares. Her favorite were the new Privates who hadn't learned to be on the look out yet. Devreaux's frame reached two hundred and ten centimeters, and her lean body was honed with hours of training each day. A figured moved between two tents ahead of her, and she grinned at her luck. With an almost silent dash, she snuck up behind the poor private and tapped him on the shoulder.

The private went stiff, and looked back towards Devreaux, not sure what was happening.

"Good evening, Private."

"Master Sergeant, c-c-can I help you with something."

"Of course Private, you can show my your Divant."

"My Divant, Master Sergeant?" The private was sweating now, looking over at the riffle he had set next to his chair while he was eating. It was easily 10 meters away now, when he had stood up to head to the latrine.

"Yes, Private Cronning. Your Divant, I would like to inspect it." Devreaux had a wry grin on her face, knowing that it meant the poor private had to try and go through her to reach the requested weapon. The private bit his lip for a second, then moved to step around the Master Sergeant to retrieve the requested piece of equipment. A moment later he was on his back, his wrist locked in a painful bind, Devreaux had applied, with barely a movement of muscle.

"Private Cronning, what are you doing on the ground?"

A groan escaped his lips. "Sergeant, learning to see god, Master Sergeant." 

"Good, good. And what is God telling you today, Private Cronning?"

A sharp intake of breath followed by another stifled expression of pain. "That I should never be more then two meters from my Divant, Master Sergeant." His voice rose sharply as Devreaux applied a slight bit more pressure to the wrist lock. 

"That is quite a revelation for you, is it not Private? Being that your Divant is some ten meters away right now?"

Cronning tapped his shoulder, trying to tap out of the hold. "It is.. gah.. nearly.. religious, Mas.. Master Sergeant."

She dropped the hold, and the private fell to a knee. With care she stood him up, and made sure his wrist wasn't damaged, then patted him on the back. "Good man. Now hurry up, get your gun, and continue on with what you were doing.

The private scampered back to his gun, then hurried off on what ever task he was originally headed for. Devreaux watched him go, and continued her rounds with a slight spring in her step. Her next stop was Sergeant Baker, who was currently sitting on camp stool, his eyes closed, arms crossed across his chest. He was not a large man, but his arms bulged with muscles. She walked up and stood next to his chair, looking at his platoon, who were clumped around various fires. 

"You find a snotty private to remind what god looks like?" Baker hadn't moved from his position, and his deep base voice kind of rumbled from his chest.

"Just Cronning. Wasn't looking to hard tonight, kids hiked a long ways, and have more tomorrow. Might as well not scare the piss out of all of them."

"Piss, and shit, if I know you. Captain working on something?"

"Yeah, Lieutenant Basu let me know that we should collect all fireworks contraband. No questions asked, and turn it over to him."

"Fireworks? What are they working up? To much of that in one place on a battle field, and poof, no more unit!"

"Mine is not to question why, Don. Mine is just to pass on the request. I've passed it on. Now you get to collect the thing."

"Thanks, you already let Cas and Monty know?"

"Of course. Monty was still grumpy about Woolsroot's crap, but what else is new. Trying to keep 3rd platoon unit from fragging him the first time they go into battle, is about I'll I can expect at this point. Poor Monty is basically running 3rd right now."

"Welp, this should be Woolsroot's last rotation in combat, so hopefully we'll be rid of him by the new year."

"Don't hold your breath." Devreaux grunted. She shifted to a more comfortable stance still looking the 2nd platoon. "Looks like you got your soldiers in good shape. Having trouble finding a reason to dish out any more religious experiences. Guess I'll head back to bed then. 

Baker grunted and kept his seat. His body not really moving as the Master Sergeant left the camp. She stepped around a tent then paused, listening back the way she came.

"Bloody hell Sarge! That was close." came the voice of a young private, Billings she thought.

"Shh.. If I know the Master Sergeant, she's like two rows down, now give me the bloody shine, my toes are cold."

She shook her head, and reached down to pick up a small pebble. Leaning back to get her aim, the let it fly over the two tent rows, and heard a satisfying clank, followed by swearing.

"What the hell?" came Billing's voice.

"Damnit, I told you, pack it up boys. Looks like no more tonight. Time to pack it in."

"How the hell does she do that?"

"If you really want to find out, ask her. I'm sure it will be a religious experience discovering the truth. 

Devreaux grinned to her self, and started whistling to let them know she was leaving. It didn't take long to reach her tent, where she quickly slipped under the wool blanket and tied the tent shut. It wasn't worth the effort to remove anything else, when she'd be up early, even though she longed to fully relax. Instead she just made the best of it, and listened as the camp slowly quieted down for the night.


	3. Old Generals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rural Towns leave a bad taste In Rabbit Companies mouth. Support from an unexpected corner.

The next morning dawned dark and rainy. The company was already on the road, having packed their gear wet. Rain slickers were out and mud splashed up their boots as they trudged steadily north east. The roads this far from Yukranton, and the major cities, were less than ideal. Large boggy sections from the rain slowed down all progress. 

The Bullsworth made good work of the roads, but Priscilla's huge bulk needed to be pushed out of the deeper ruts every few miles. Crossing streams became herculean tasks, and frequent stops to maneuver the Steam engine through the muddy banks, with ropes and twenty men pulling. Frank was out with his officers, pushing and pulling as necessary, helping the men get the monstrous machine moving when it got stuck.

The trees in the region, were various shades of green, lush with leaves and moss. A mixture of broad conifers, and the occasional Pine, gave a range colors and, if it were not raining, would habe been stunning. Huge willow were the most common tree in the area, followed closely by huge ancient Oaks. These became the anchor points for hauling the big steam engine across the swollen rivers, with a few giving way to the sheer bulk of Rabbit Company's prized piece of equipment.

Beyond just the men, the baggage wagons were unhooked, and the oxen moved forward to haul the massive device through the mud. The oxen were then re-hooked to their own wagons, to pull them across. Hours went by, this process repeating dozens of times slowing progress to less than twelve miles for the day.

When not surrounded by stands of trees, broad fields of clover and blue grass lead down to small creeks that were rushing in their banks due to the rain. Fields of grains, straw, and hay dotted the countryside around them, and small hamlets, sensibly, topped hills in the distance, surrendering the low lands to the consistent floods of the persistent rain. 

Nearing the end of their day, the outskirts of a small town greeted the soaking wet company, with umbrellas and waving flags. Children skipped along beside the soldiers, oblivious to the rain and puddles. Banners were hung out from windows, and the two hundred or so town folk were turned out in their finery. Top hats and bonnets adorned the heads, suit coats, flashing buttons, and ball dresses adorned their bodies. A few former military were turned out in all their dress uniforms, with shined boots and medals adorning their chests.

Frank pulled up in front of an impromptu review stand in the town center next to the path his troopers would soon be taking. The Bullsworth’s top was up, covering himself and David, allowing him a modicum of comfort from the incessant rain. He pushed out an umbrella and stepped out of the vehicle and then up to the review stand. The town’s mayor stood under a dripping awning reached out a hand to Frank.

"Greetings! We heard 2nd corps was moving this way. What company are you?" Frank being covered nearly head to foot in mud, from helping to push the equipment where necessary, carefully took the mayors hand.

"Captain Frank Henries, Echo company, 37th Battalion, 3rd Division. Pleasure to meat you, Sir." Frank shook the hand confidently, smiling graciously at the Mayor.

"Echo Company you said? Haven’t heard of an Echo Company, what’s your company’s primary Talent?" The Troop had reached the gravel lined street by now, and the steady march caused a cheer to rise up from the spectators.

"No specific Talent, Sir. We specialize in being first into the fray."

"No specific Talent? I though all the companies were organized by their Talents?" A portly man beside the mayor was pulling urgently on his arm. The man was dressed in a silk suit with broad red sash running from his right shoulder to his left hip. He was giving Frank a suspicious eye, that Frank new from far too many similar encounters. 

"Ah, that’s a bit of a myth sir. We used to do that, but it was putting too many eggs in one basket. If we lost a company, we lost access to that Talent."

"Ah” the Mayor said considering the explanation. “Makes sense, makes sense. Excuse me a moment would you Captain Henries?" He turned to the other official. "Yes, What is it Norlind!" Exasperation shaking the Mayor's shoulders as he turned away from the marching troops he'd been admiring.

Portly Norlind proceeded to whisper in the Mayors ear, rising on his tip toes to ensure he didn't have to speak to loudly. The Mayor's eyes went wide as he turned back to Frank. "Did you say you had no Talents, Captain?"

"Not, precisely, Sir, But Echo companies are traditionally made of Notalaunts."

"Nota... Umm well if you’ll excuse me, Captain." The mayor turned his back on Frank with a decided coldness. He started whispering to his staff, who whispered to their aides. The cheering of the crowd died slowly, till it was only a dull murmur of disappointment, and other whispers began. No few town folk returned to their houses in seeming disgust. 

"Well I can see you know how to treat a Knotty, well, Sir. Good day to you!" That bile was back in Frank's throat, from his earlier confrontation with the General, as he turned on a heal to step off the platform

"HOW DARE YOU! YOU... You... trumped up Notalaunt cretin!" The mayor sputtered at Frank in sudden feigned insult. "You have no right to speak to me that way!"

"No, Sir. How dare you!" This voice came from the Mayor’s right. It was rough, and angry. The red faced man who spoke it wore an older uniform, with multiple ribbons on his chest, and at least one King’s Valor, and one Parliamentary Honor. "You utter imbecile." The veteran said to the mayor then turned to Frank. "I apologize, Captain Henries. The Mayor’s bigotry is showing." The veteran turned back to the mayor. "Do you have any idea of the casualty rate of an Echo Company? Do you understand that their sacrifices have saved more lives, then all the Talent Companies put together? You miserable excuse for a bigoted fool.” The last bit grumbled out like a drill sergeant chomping on a new recruit. “Most of those boys won’t be coming back. Most of them will die shoving a dagger in a Frasier stomach. They deserve more honors than the Talent companies. And by the Maker, if you won’t supply them, then I will!"

"Now, General Dwight, be reasonable." pleaded the Mayor. The man had taken a few steps back from the General's lecture, and looked to be about ready to run in panic.

"I was reasonable 15 minutes ago." The General turned to Frank, and nodded to him once. Frank saluted back to the retired officer, appreciating the old General speaking up. The General waved him off. "You'll stay on my farm tonight, Captain. I know it's not much, but a Nottie Company held the line at Blanker fifty years ago. Held the line until only their Captain remained, while the rest of my troops, talents everyone, ran like yellow blooded frogs. Even after the captain had taken a sword to his chest, he kept fighting. Gave me just enough time to rally the troops and push them back. Never forgot that day, nor their sacrifice. So, you, you stay on my farm tonight Captain. And this buggering Mayor can avoid it like the coward he is."

"Now General, no need for name calling!" Retorted the Mayor in new indignation. "If they stay on your farm and away from good Maker fearing folk, then you can do what you will." The Mayor threw up his hand in disgust, backing back into a large house behind the review stage.

Frank blinked at the exchange. Somewhat stunned that anyone would stand up for his company, but thankful to the old general, "My thanks. General Dwight was it?"

"Yes Captain. Fought in the Delta Wars, fifty years ago. Still be in, if I hadn’t lost a foot." He lifted his pants leg and knocked on his boot. The dull sound of a wood replied back. "I got medals in that fight, for not running like a lily-livered coward, while that Echo company... they got a mass grave. Crime in my book, but I was just a major then. That lot did us proud and I expect your lot will too. Evelyn won't mind the boys. Camp in the back field, wasn't planting it this year anyways. She's an Empy, and tends to like most people, just pass the word along, last road before the bridge."

"Sir, I thank you from the company as a whole. Are you positive you wish to do this? Could be bad for you after we leave.” Frank glanced at the Mayor's house who had his shades pulled now. 

The General laughed. "Oh, don't you be worrying about me. My Evelyn makes the best custards in town, and the Mayor is particularly fond of them. He'll forgive us. Now be off with ya, before the front of your column gets past the turn."

"Yes, sir and thank you. You are welcome to come out and share old war stories, I'd be happy to learn from someone with experience."

"Oh, you've opened a can of worms there, my lad. You'll be lucky to get sleep now." The General nearly cackled with glee and rubbed his hands. "I've some business to attend, you just get your boys settled and I'll be along."

Frank hopped off the stand and strode quickly up to Lieutenant Wasker who was just passing the review stand. The Lieutenant was twenty three, and in her first deployment. Her unit was in good shape, despite the long day they’d had. She was average height, with black, almost raven hair, pulled back in a tight bun beneath her hat. Brown eyes, caught his and a quick salute greeted him. "Pass the word, Kat, Take the road before the bridge, bivouac in the back field."

Wasker gave a short nod and trotted up the line. Frank nodded back then turned to David and the Bullsworth.

"Who was that, sir?"

"That? That was a man who remembers. We'll take the last road before the bridge, David. Be sure to offer help to the lady of the manor, Miss Evelyn. I'm sure I can manage the tent."

"Sir, you couldn't manage a tent if five men were helping you." David said jovially. "I'll get it arraigned and see to the lady, sir. You just see the men settled in, and a change of the uniform. I'd be mortified if any of the other valets caught you out in that." His eyes gave Frank the once over, the look of disapproval nearly burning the dirt from Frank's travel uniform. 

Frank was convinced that if David had a superpower it was the repelling of dirt. His trusted valet was a Telk and handled most of his duties with hardly a huff or strain of muscle. Frank's capability of pitching in, for even the dirtiest of jobs, strained David's sensibilities, and Valet training, to its extent. Frank felt he would be lost without the trusted man and shrugged at the affectionate but revolted gaze. 

With a grin at his valet, Frank motioned for him to drive forward. "I will put myself in your trusted hands to ensure I do not embarrass the Army, the Company, and especially yourself, in front of the General."

"Very good, sir. Very good." The Bullsworth whined into action, following behind the column as it wound through the small village, its streets no longer lined with anyone but some older Veterans who nodded politely, as Frank passed them by. It was only a few minutes to the turn off, then a winding drive to a Farmhouse set a few hundred meters outside the town. 

A low wall surrounded the manor itself. The wall was really just stone stacked in a line to keep the cattle out of the manor grounds. It was haphazard and looked to be ready to fall down without much notice. The Manor was a three-story affair. The walls exterior walls showed heavy, but well maintained, timber, with white plaster to help keep the weather out. Crossed timbers served as decorations to break up the plain plaster. Turrets held the corners up, and high peaked roofs made for a striking building. It was a little run down, not more than one would expect from a house of a few decades, but in fairly good repair overall.

David pulled the Bullsworth around the side of the house, following the column into the back field. Tents were already lining up as the men set about the process of unloading the wagons. Priscilla sat in the center of the field, and the engineering team swarmed over her, checking for any damage from the slog through the rain. 

Frank looked about for his officers and found them consulting with a field hand. David cleared his throat behind him. "You are NOT to approach the manner till your tent is up, and your uniform changed, Sir."

"You have my word David, though we should greet the lady of the manor as soon as possible. Can you see to that?"

"I will converse with her butler as soon as I have instructions as to the disposition of your tent set about."

"Thank you David, I have faith in your abilities." Frank said as he turned to join his officers. 

"Of course, sir"

Frank stepped up to the officer conversation, listening to get a feel for the discussion before chiming in.

"Lookee 'ere. The General can say what 'e likes, but we cannae be havin' a bunch of Notties mucking up the fallows. We needs that to not be tamped down to much sos we cannae plant it next season."

Rax had his best smile on, despite his mud encrusted uniform. The mud reached all the way to his mustache, but the smile was like a white gash in his dark face. "Well, we were offered the field, I promise not to parade the men about it, and keep the compacting to a minimum. We can use the ox to churn up the camp area when we leave, no work on your part."

The work hand was tall,big and had a shock of red hair that would have made a lowlander proud. His freckled face was furrowed as he thought about that, his lips pursed. "Well, if'n ya promise to break it up, then I guess thas fine, then. Still, no marchin' about! This here is a quiet village, we dunnae need na boots stamping up a noise."

Rax rolled his eyes to Wasker as she hid her smirk with a soft cough. "Of course, sir. We'll keep things as quiet as an army camp can be. Anything else we can do for you?"

"Well... if'n you have time..." The hand began, only to be interrupted by a shout from the rear of the house. 

"Diggly, leave those soldiers alone. Carmine said they could stay, so they'll stay. Oh Captain, there you are!" The lady was quite the cut. She wore a long dress, with several layers of crinoline beneath it. It was shaded an almost sapphire blue. A matching coat, with silver buttons down its front, sowed a bit of ruffle under her chin. She stepped from the house and marched towards the officers who had all turned to look at Frank. 

"David is going to kill me... " Frank muttered as he brightened his smile and approached the fierce woman who was striding towards him. "Miss Emily, I presume?" Frank managed to get out before the woman stomped up to them. He could see the edges of thick soled boots, and Frank guessed those boots held up to the mud quite effectively. 

"Of course, of course. I am so happy to host such a fine bunch of soldiers. My husband was saved by a bunch of Notaulants you know, wouldn't have this farm, or our five kids without good men and women like you. Of course, you and your officers will be dining at our table tonight, Captain Henries right? You will have the spare room, I have already instructed my butler to move your things there. Your officers can take the spare servants quarters. I've taken the liberty of inviting a few of the other veterans about the town, to come over, and Ms. Wiggly has been instructed to put on a full banquet. Tut Tut, I will not take no for an answer, just get yourselves sorted, and I'll see you sharply at seven. I will brook no lateness, understood?"

Frank raised a hand to speak at any pause in the ongoing instructions he was receiving. It was a valiant effort, but Miss Emily was a force of nature that couldn't be stopped by anything short of the need for air, or a physical assault. Frank wasn't even sure the latter would have accomplished anything. He glanced at his officers who all looked just as surprised as he felt. "Miss Emily, we can't possibly impose." 

"What did I just say, Captain Henries. Seven. In proper attire, or I will be cross, very, very cross."

"Yes, ma'am. Seven it is. Proper attire." Wasker said, interrupting Frank from making a fool of himself in the face of the General's Wife. Wasker turned to her fellow officers and raised an eyebrow. "Sir, I think the white flag is your best course of action, if you don't mind me saying."

Frank looked back at Miss Emily and with a decided sigh, nodded and agreed. "Very well, Miss Emily, but if your cook needs anything done, send word to my Valet or the Master Sergeant. I have two hundred hands that need to not be idle, the least they can do is help with basic services. Rex, Kat, Dick, I expect you to all be in your finest. If you need to borrow David, you have my permission." 

The Lady of the Manor nodded in triumph, shot a look at Diggly the farm hand, that made him scurry off to some other task. With a stately turn, she then proceeded to stomp back to the Manor. Somehow, through all of that, not a drop of mud ended up on her dress. The rain had mostly let up by this point, but the mud still filled the field in a soft sticky mess. 

"Very impressive lady, sir." Rex said. 

Frank gave a wry smile. "You three should be careful. I've met more than a few of that type through my Father in Law. She'll have you married off by sun-up, if she finds out you don't have rings on those fingers." All three blanched slightly, looked at each other, then back at Frank. "Now off with you. Get your platoons in order, then report to the house for clean-up. I want the biffys dug as far away from the house as possible, and make sure we are ready to break camp as early as possible. It'll take an extra hour to break up the field after we are gone, and I don't want to waste to much sunlight."

Private First Class Alfred Billings was none too happy. "Join the Army, they said. Get your stipend, they said." He threw down a piece of his tent in frustration. "I was supposed to be a bloody mechanic!" He was standing with his squad on the flat bivouac site. All around him troopers bustled to get their tents in place before the rain started in again. Billings was about a hundred and seventy five centimeters tall. He had nondescript brown hair, cut murderously short. His eyes were almost gold however, which was about the only feature that set him apart.

Sergeant Bakers looked up at the private. "Careful there, trooper. Don’t want the rain leaking on you from a hole in that tent. Why the projectile?" Sergeant Bakers was one of the few survivors of the Battle of Yukranton. He had a long scar across his cheek, and stood slightly less than two meters. His body was built like a rugby player, and his face looked like he should star in the sport. Red hair topped it off, with crystal blue eyes. 

Billings glared at the Sergeant. "We just marched eight hours in the, Maker be damned rain. I'm sure the Talents are floating above all this mud, like it isn't even there. But no, leave the Notties to walk their legs off."

Bakers grinned. "We are Rabbits, Billings. Strong legs are needed. And mud is a great camouflage"

"Great Sarge. I’ve heard what happens to Rabbits in these battles. Most of them come back in their kit bags."

"Only if you don’t run fast enough, right Sarge?" Came the voice of Private First Class (Pfc.) Harvey Trenton from the other side of Billings. The voice was a smooth baritone. The owner looked like he’d pulled the plow for the farm he grew up on. He was solid muscle and as big as a horse. Dark brown hair shaved at the sides, and short on top dipped with the damp. Trenton’s tent was up and braced, and he was turning to help Billings setup his bivouac as he spoke.

Billings tossed his pack to one side as he started setting up his bivouac again with Trenton’s help. On the other side of their row was Private Joshua Fiens, Private Jerry Caldona, and Pfc Bill Quincy. When Baker started pulling out his own bivouac gear Billings looked like he was going to explode. "Damnit Sarge, why do you always bunk out next to me?"

Bakers smiled casually. "Because you snore less than any other member of our squad."

"Yeah, Sarge, but you snore more than the rest of the platoon combined."

"I don’t snore, Billings, I breath cadence in my sleep. You should learn to just follow along in your head, you’d sleep better." Bakers grinned at the young Private, as he set up his own tent by rote movement. "Sides, Billings, you always have that deck of cards on you. Wouldn’t want you to be unsupervised with it." Bakers was lean, and muscular. Sandy brown hair, and pinkish skin from the cold, showed his warrior heritage, likely a direct descendent of the Maker’s Own from Landing. That group of soldiers tasked with ensuring the Maker’s People survived in the world the Maker had prepared for them. 

Billings groaned and shook his head in frustration going back to setting up the tent. Everyone in the unit knew Billings was a card shark. He’d taken at least two other privates pay for a month shortly after he joined the company. Everyone was still trying to figure out how he did it, Billings didn’t know either. It was just good luck he decided. 

Their tents up, Billings and the squad got a fire going for roasting up what meat they had, under a thick tarp strung between the tents. They all had to stoop to get under it, but the rain was kept off, and the fire helped dry their clothes. Trenton tended to do the cooking, so Billings sat and drank coffee, watching Trenton stew their meat with some carrots and potatoes the squad had squirreled away. 

Bakers grinned at Trenton. "Smells good, private. Might make a cook out of you someday after all. Technically I should be reporting all this hoarding but share and share a like I always say!" He handed over a dried onion he’d pull from somewhere. "With the officers off at the Manor, no one to report it to anyways, except Master Sergeant, and she'd just shrug and eat her own chili"

Trenton smiled back, "Just so long as one of the potatoes ends up on your trencher, right?" Bakers just grinned larger, and sat back against his kit to rest. 

Billings took a long breath. "It does smell good. Guess I can deal with the Army, if they keep feeding us like this. "

“Wait till we have to forage off the farms east of Mortimer. It’s always a mess, and them farmers never like giving us a fair shake. They’ll sell to Bravo or Able at cheap prices, but an Echo company, twice the price, and the rot they’ve been saving for the pigs.”

Fiens, Quincy and Caldona frowned as well. “Foraging sounds as fun as bivouacking.” Fiens volunteered. 

"Better, you actually get to give civilians some gruff." offered Caldona.

"True enough. Long day tomorrow, so let’s get the grub down, get in your tents and dry off and then rest." Bakers looked around the squad. "And I do mean rest. I'm sure we'll want to put in twenty miles tomorrow if we can, at least if this rain lets up."

"Yes, sergeant" murmured around the squad around mouths full of food. 


End file.
